The Kettle Chronicles
by j-orbanski
Summary: All John wants to do is have a cup of tea, have some hot cocoa, or even make a pot noodle, but there's always something happening to the damn kettle. Is Sherlock always to blame?  Sherlock / John


**The Kettle Chronicles**

**Author: **Jordan

**Rating: **PG

**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters. This was done for fun, and I'm not making any profit from it. I've got enough student loans, please don't sue me.

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There are many simple pleasures in life. One of them is a hot cup of tea made exactly to personal preferences. Two sugars, a dribble or two of milk, and at the perfect temperature where it's not going to burn a tongue, but not cold enough to be bitter.

John Watson had not experienced this pleasure since he moved in with Sherlock. There's always something getting in his way.

The first time he tried to make himself a cuppa, he couldn't find a kettle. No bother, he thought, he had found a clean mug, he could just heat the water in the microwave. Everything was going perfectly, he had everything ready, the tea, the milk, the sugar, and even a spoon. All he needed was to heat the water and he could relax in the armchair with the perfect cup of tea until Sherlock came and bothered him with something.

And then he opened the microwave. Staring back at him was a mason jar half-full of eyeballs in a variety of iris colors. He closed the door, blinked a few times, and then reopened it. They were still there. He wasn't imagining it.

As if he could read John's mind, Sherlock walked in at that moment and said that he was testing the way radiation can affect blood pressure within the eye and if iris color makes a difference. John could not hold his anger in no matter how hard he bit his lip. He was just about to start screaming his head off when Sherlock silenced him by saying that he would ask Mrs. Hudson if they could borrow her electric kettle until they bought one.

Mrs. Hudson's kettle didn't last an hour. John had just started to calm down and relax: he would have this cup of tea. Sherlock said he'd take care of procuring that kettle and even said he'd make this cup of tea. John should have known that this couldn't end well. While Sherlock could be considered a genius at solving puzzles and mysteries, he wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier when it came to social activities or everyday tasks.

Sherlock had sat him down in his favorite armchair and told him that everything would be fine.

Twenty minutes later, there was a crash as Sherlock swore loudly. John closed his eyes and tried to count back from fifteen. He has barely gotten to eleven when he smelled smoke. He really, really, really did not want to know what was going on. He knew he should get up and investigate, but he knew if he did, he'd just become angry again.

He sighed as he got out of the chair and walked into the kitchen. Wisps of black smoke billowed from the kettle. Apparently, Sherlock tried to experiment on the poor kettle. He had rewired the kettle, just a little tiny bit, to try and make it more efficient: hotter water in a smaller timeframe. The kettle hadn't liked that and rebelled by committing kettle suicide.

John sighed. He was better off going to the Starbucks down the street for a half-decent venti chai latte instead of attempting to make tea in their flat. This was ridiculous: he couldn't even make tea without one of Sherlock's experiments backfiring and blowing up in his face.

They were now negative two kettles and still without a cup of tea. John started going through the cupboards, he would have tea, even if he had to boil the water in a pot. As he went through the cupboard and found pan after pan, Sherlock listed off reasons why the cookware wasn't the best for human consumption afterward. Poisons. Bladders. C4. Beeswax. Snake venom. The cupboards were now empty and he was still without a pot, saucepan, or even saucier to boil water in.

He was about to Macgyver a cooking vessel out of a tin can and aluminum foil when he decided to concede and just ask Mrs. Hudson if she would make him a cuppa. She complained that she was the landlady, not the housekeeper, but then found out that Sherlock and broken her kettle and swiftly kicked him out of her flat.

When he returned to their flat, Sherlock already had his coat and scarf on, John's coat in hand, that curious glint in his eye. The tea would have to wait, they had a case. John could only hope that this adventure would end in Lestrade's office, where he could ask Donovan for a cuppa which would only have half of the sugar and double the milk that he would ever want in a cup of tea.

But it would have to do.

The next day, John went out and bought two brand-new electric kettles. He gave one to Mrs. Hudson, who was quite pleased at the gesture, and hid the other in the locked trunk he kept in his bedroom.

He knew, deep down, that not even a combination padlock could keep Sherlock from something if he wanted or needed it for one of his insane experiments.

Two days later, that hypothesis was proven.

After a long day at the clinic, all John wanted was a mug of hot cocoa with a ton of marshmallows mounded on the top. He happily carried his shopping bag full of cocoa mixes and a giant bag of miniature marshmallows down Baker Street and into his room.

He opened the trunk that held the kettle and found it was missing. John's fists balled at his sides. He yelled for his flat mate, but there was no response. He walked into the kitchen and found the kettle on the counter already plugged in. He knew that this was either going to end well or very, very badly.

He emptied a pouch of hot cocoa mix into a mug and then loaded it halfway full with marshmallows. The water in the kettle was at a simmer, according to the light on the base, which was perfect for the cocoa. He slowly poured the water into the mug and suddenly felt that something had gone very wrong.

The cocoa, which was supposed to be a rich, chocolaty-brown color, was actually a dark, rust-brown color.

John sighed before he opened the lid of the kettle and found at the bottom three severed fingers, which had obviously been simmering in the hot water for at least an hour. As he poured the cocoa down the sink, Sherlock walked into the room, wearing his coat and shoes, cheeks rosy from the cold he was just in.

Sherlock tried to explain about the case that he was on, that there was not a minute to lose, but John cut him off. All he wanted was to be able to keep a kettle so he could have a cup of tea or some cocoa once in a while. That wasn't too much to ask, was it? He had already bought two kettles and now he was going to have to buy a third, because the one boiling digits was obviously not safe for normal culinary use now.

Sherlock tried to explain that the fingers were about to put a notorious rapist behind bars for a very long time, but John kept ranting on about the stupid kettle. He wanted the doctor to shut up for just a moment so he could tell him that brilliance and catching criminals was of far greater worth than a bloody mug of cocoa.

John saw that peculiar look on Sherlock's face and knew that something was about to happen, but he never could have guessed what was about to happen next.

One moment he was going on a tirade about the kettle, and the next, Sherlock's mouth was on his in a kiss he never saw coming. At first, he stood there, eyes wide open in shock, mouth unmoving, but then he responded with fervor. He hadn't realized that he had actually wanted this. Wanted Sherlock.

At the back of his mind, he wondered if this was another one of Sherlock's stupid experiments, but honestly, he didn't care whether or not it was or not. All that mattered to him was this moment, and everything else was shoved aside.

Sherlock pulled away first, before telling John that he had to shut him up about the stupid kettle somehow, and that he would buy them another new one when he went out the next day. John just nodded before attacking Sherlock's mouth, the kettle and cocoa be damned.

As they lay sprawled out on the living room floor a few hours later, John had completely forgotten about the severed-finger cocoa. He had found a new way to unwind after a long day at the clinic.

John Watson was starving. He and Sherlock had been on the couch all afternoon, watching trashy reality television. Sherlock had yelled about how popped collars and baggy trousers had equated to being the father. And he was right, as always, but it wasn't exactly rocket science deciphering the editing and crowd reactions of the trashy daytime talk shows.

Since it was Tuesday, Sherlock wasn't hungry, but John hadn't eaten all day. He searched through the kitchen for something edible; all he found was a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle. He automatically sighed. First, he didn't want Pot Noodle, but didn't feel like putting trousers on and going to Angelo's for food. Second, this involved a kettle. He knew the problems he'd had keeping kettles more than a week, and today was day 8 for this one. Third, it was raining. It had been raining for four days straight now, continuously, and he'd had enough rain for an entire lifetime.

John looked around for the kettle, but couldn't find it. He walked back into the living room and stared at Sherlock until he paid attention. It didn't take long for Sherlock's blue eyes to connect with his. John calmly asked where the kettle was, but the detective boasted ignorance. John could feel his blood pressure rising. Sherlock had promised him that he wasn't going to mess about with any more kettles. Yet, here they were, kettleless.

His stomach gurgled. He refused to go out into the rain to get Italian from Angelo's. So far, it seemed that he was going to have to, if he ever wanted to suppress this hunger he felt.

John Watson was becoming very angry quite quickly. Was it so much to ask to have a half-decent, working kettle in the flat? He didn't think that this was too much to ask. Hell, he thought it was pretty basic. Everyone needed a kettle, electric or old-fashioned, for tea, cocoa, the occasional Pot Noodle, or even for a bath if the hot water ran out.

But, of course, he didn't live in a normal flat. He lived with Sherlock Holmes, the furthest away from a normal flat mate that someone could ever find. If he was honest with himself, he enjoyed living at 221B with the sociopath known as Sherlock. Sure, he had absolutely no privacy, had the possibility of being kidnapped at any time, and either he or his possessions could be commandeered for an experiment at any moment, but that kept it exciting.

And that was what stopped the tremor.

However, this kettle situation was different. Sherlock had promised him that he wouldn't do anything to this kettle, and John expected him to at least stand by his word. Yet, here he was, without a kettle and starving.

Sherlock swore up and down that he didn't take the kettle, that he hadn't done anything with it, but his previous track record wasn't helping him. John was ready to call Mycroft and ask him to review the tapes he knew he had of their flat. Mycroft was always one up on their surveillance.

The rain had started to let up as they continued to search for the damned kettle. It was tempting to just say "screw the kettle!" and go to Angelo's for chicken parmesan on the house, but John would not let Sherlock off the hook that easily. John sighed as he sat down on the couch, stomach grumbling, as Sherlock still rifled through the cupboards.

It wasn't surprising that Mrs. Hudson knocked on their door and popped in to check on them, as pots and pans were now clanging on the floor, Sherlock rifling through them for the kettle he thought was hidden.

Mrs. Hudson asked what all the commotion was for, was the game on again? Did Sherlock find another nice murder to occupy his time? Nope, he was just looking for their kettle, which had apparently sprouted legs and walked off. Her face had lit up at that moment like a Christmas tree before she scurried off.

She came back a few moments later, their kettle in hand.

"Sorry dearies, I popped off with this Tuesday afternoon when you two were off chasing that Moriarty dead end. I swore I left you two a note somewhere around here."

A Cheshire-like grin spread across Sherlock's lips an instant after she said it. John felt a blush begin to creep across his cheeks.

Sherlock was right again.

John sighed. Some day he would just accept Sherlock always being correct about everything.


End file.
